


All That Remains

by DingoAteTheImpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Set before S05E04 'The End', but i digress, may be inaccurate as i've never taken drugs myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1765636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DingoAteTheImpala/pseuds/DingoAteTheImpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel contemplates the collapse of humanity in a crumbling world in which he is much use to the one person that means the universe to him dead as he is alive. And that one person, well, he died a long time ago, leaving behind a hollow imitation of the man that Castiel used to love. But Cas keeps fighting for the sake of fighting, because there's nothing else left to fight for. And he would love to say that it could be worse, but he gave up lying to himself months ago.</p>
<p>My first Supernatural fanfiction, set in the end!verse timeline. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Hello, there! This is my first ever Supernatural fanfiction and my first fanfic on AO3, though I've written plenty of fanfic on other sites. After spending about a year now in the Supernatural fandom, I thought it was time I finally got in on this.
> 
> This fanfic is set in the end!verse, and basically came about due to my personal little obsession with end!verse Cas, who is, ehhhh...my third-favourite Misha character? (I dunno man, Jimmy Novak just nicks that silver medal from right under future!Cas's nose. And of course Cas comes first, cos I'm unoriginal.) My heart sort of breaks a little for future!Cas (and Jimmy) basically every day. Plus, I totally subscribe to the idea that future!Cas and future!Dean were secretly (or maybe not secretly cough cough) in an angry-sex relationship in the end!verse, so I sneakily shoved it into this fic. 
> 
> I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. I'm just borrowing them for the fun of it, promise. Feedback is also largely appreciated in all its forms! Like I said, this is my first SPN fic, so I'd love to hear from you.

Castiel had strong opinions on the subject of being human, both positive and negative opinions and attitudes that ebbed and flowed in and out of his consciousness as he trudged through life as a disappointing excuse for a human. These opinions on humanity and human experiences were probably the most optimistic when all of his logic and sanity ebbed away, replaced with the flow of euphoria that accompanied the effects of his…well, his ’hobbies’, as Dean had once so eloquently put it. With the inevitable end of, well, _everything_ looming, Castiel felt that it was his goddamn _right_ to indulge in as much debauchery as he possibly could before the lights went out and the remaining scattered shreds of humanity were snuffed. And then, when the effects of Castiel’s recreational activities weaved from pleasure and ecstasy into restlessness, irritability and lethargy, he realised that he really, _really hated_ humanity. Or, at least, what humanity had shrivelled into over the past few years.

If he was being honest, Castiel _hated_ being human. In fact, he spent almost every waking moment missing being an angel. He missed his wings, he missed flying, smiting, healing, being something worth giving a damn about…

When Dean Winchester suffered nightmares, he especially missed his ability to dream-walk. To enter the dreams of Dean Winchester like an inward breath, to soothe away the insufferable nightmares that preyed upon him. More than anything, Castiel missed being able to protect Dean Winchester in the sleeping hours as he used to be able to in the waking ones.

Dean didn’t let his guard down very often – scratch that, _ever_ – anymore. Not even in slumber – his senses had sharpened beyond those he exercised in their early years together, and his paranoia was now far too great, and (even on the nights where Dean and his guardian stoner would, unbeknownst to the other members of the camp, share a bed) Dean just wouldn’t tell Cas (or anyone, for that matter) anything anymore. On those ‘special’ nights where they shared a bed, Cas would curl up beside Camp Chitaqua’s fearless leader and watch his face, wondering what Dean dreamt of nowadays. Were his dreams plagued by images of his tattered little brother being worn by the Devil? Did he spend both the sleeping and waking moments running from endless waves of Croats? Was he ever once, just once, granted a night of peace, a night of serenity? 

Cas strongly doubted it. They had been sharing a bed for the best part of six hours now. Dean had gotten up three or four times to check that the doors were still bolted up tight and that everything was okay. But while he slept, Dean’s left hand never strayed from the bedside table, on which both his and Castiel’s pistols were laid. Castiel let out a bitter chuckle. 

Fearless leader, indeed. 

To make matters worse, Castiel couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t taken a pill or drank or snorted anything since right before the sex with Dean (hey, whenever he gets a metaphorical night in Heaven with Dean Winchester, he takes all necessary precautions to make it as enjoyable as possible. So, he took a couple pills to make the whole experience that much better. Sue him). Castiel was getting irritable and restless from the withdrawal; his limbs and joints were as tense as a resting Dean’s. 

So Cas concluded that he wasn’t gonna get any sleep tonight – the sun’d come up pretty soon anyway and he was joining Dean on a mission later this morning. He reached over to a little bottle of amphetamines on a rotting bedside table on his side of the ragged, old bed, and sat up only slightly. Dean's left arm twitched in response to the movement, his hand tightening around the grip of his own pistol. Aware of the movement, Castiel chugged down a couple of the pills, dry, before replacing the lid and placing the bottle back onto the table. Carefully, Cas laid back down with minimal movement, so to not wake Dean. Once Castiel was settled again, he turned his head slightly so he could get a good view of his fearless leader, his old friend. Dean was laying face-upwards in the bed, in a good mimicry of one of those robots in the Science-Fiction films Dean used to secretly (or not-so secretly) adore. Everything about Dean’s posture was straight and orderly and stoic (Castiel was faintly reminded of a past life), apart from his left hand, which was still resting on the gun, perched like a predator ready to pounce. Cas let out a sigh.

Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man. His charge. 

Castiel had failed him. 

If Castiel had wanted anything for Dean Winchester, anything at all, it was peace. Peace for the Winchester brothers was the one thing he used to repetitively pray to his dead-beat father for – back when he was an angel, when he still believed his father was out there, when he was trying to bring an end to the apocalypse alongside Dean and _Sam._ ( _Sam!_ Castiel still had nightmares about losing Sam. Dean’s little brother, never the abomination that Castiel had once believed him to be. Always so kind and gentle and friendly and brave and bold and... Castiel had failed him, too). Yes, now Sam was _gone_ and Dean was dead inside and everything was so wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ and Cas wanted nothing more than to scream at the Heavens and curse God, curse himself, curse any goddamn angel or demon or anyone in between who had had anything to do with that bullshit apocalypse. He wanted to tell his brothers and sisters and father that they were cowards – _all of them were cowards_ – because they had left humanity and the Winchesters and Castiel _all alone_ and because they were supposed to _protect_ humanity because that was their _mission_ all along, and why had they forgotten that? Because, when it came down to it, _peace on Earth_ was all Castiel had been fighting for, and in the end all that fighting was for nothing, because he seemed to be the only goddamn angel who was stupid enough to buy into that image of _peace_ , the only one who had _tried_ for humanity despite their faults, their oh-so-many faults, and why had he thought that there could ever be peace for these blemished, imperfect beings?

_Peace,_ he thought derisively. There was no such thing. Not while there were humans, angels, monsters, demons. There could be no peace where there was life and war and fear and suffering. 

Artificial peace was all he had now. An image of peace. Peaceful propaganda in a tiny little bottle. 

While he waited for the effects of the pills to settle in, he spent a few short minutes watching over his charge. Just like old times. He longed to stare into Dean Winchester’s soul once more, even though he knew that, after years and years of pain and suffering and chaos, Dean’s soul would be burnt and crumpled and damaged beyond repair. All that remained of Dean’s beautiful, bright soul was a memory in Castiel’s mind. 

But Castiel was determined to keep the memory alive, even if the real thing was long gone. For Castiel didn’t really believe in the Dean Winchester that lay before him, no; he believed in the Dean Winchester that he had loved so deeply for the best part of five years. The one that died sometime between the Croatoan invasion and his brother’s possession and the frigging apocalypse. Memory or not, the image of Dean’s soul was the only thing that kept Castiel going, kept him fighting. The very last pure image of humanity.

Castiel reached out to shake Dean’s shoulder, to wake him, but drew away at the last second, wanting to preserve the image of peace for as long as possible. He just wanted to enjoy the moment alone with his best friend, before this version of Dean woke up and Cas had to face him once more.

“It’s okay, Dean.” He muttered to the sleeping figure. “It’ll all be over soon.” Rather than touching Dean’s shoulder, the patting of the shoulder being the universally-recognised, patent-pending Dean Wincheste-style sign of friendship and brotherhood, Cas’ trembling hand landed in Dean’s hair. He rustled it, before placing a tentative kiss on the top of Dean’s head.

He had been too selfish. He had over-indulged. 

Dean woke immediately in a demonstration of those pristine reactions of his. He gripped the ex-angel’s hand and twisted, dominating and sitting right on top of his supposed attacker. He pointed his pistol straight at Cas’ head, but lowered it when he saw Cas, and a grim, worn expression settled onto his face. The effects of the amphetamines seemed to be finally kicking in, and Cas scoffed and grinned up at the camp's fearless leader. 

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean grumbled, avoiding eye contact. Cas smirked, trying to catch Dean’s eyes in the same way that Dean had done in their first years together. In those moments when he would attempt to appeal to Castiel’s humanity. 

“No need to bring family into this, Dean,” He said. “After all, we had such a nice time last night. Don’t shit on that memory.” 

Dean rolled his eyes, removing himself from the restricting (yet, Cas had to admit, completely enjoyable) position they were in. Dean got out of the bed, pulled on an olive green shirt and military jacket over the t-shirt and jeans he’d been wearing, and left the room, calling back to Cas, “We leave for the mission in ten,” all without even looking him in the eye. 

And he was gone. 

Castiel watched the closed door for a solid five minutes before he finally got out of bed. He quickly checked his guns and supplies for the mission, but not before popping down two more pills of artificial peace, making the same promise he’d made to his dead best friend to himself:

“It’ll all be over soon.”


End file.
